


The Anatomy Lesson

by Hopetohell



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Desk Sex, F/M, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26988574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Sherlock is a student of the human form. And who better than you to help him review his knowledge?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	The Anatomy Lesson

The desk is clear of everything, dark wood shining bare, and he says “take off your clothes and lie down on your belly.” So you do; the wood is cool beneath you and your hips shift a little, unconsciously trying to evade the chill. This is “a study of anatomy, dear, don’t wriggle.” This is Sherlock stretching out your limbs to point them to the four corners of the desk; this is him bringing out soft rope to hold you there. 

He lays his heavy anatomy text across the swell of your ass; he brushes his fingers gently down your cleft and parts your cheeks to nestle the book’s spine between them. There’s the softest clink of his pen dipping into the inkwell, then he brushes your hair aside to scratch the nib across your uppermost vertebra. “Atlas,“ he murmurs. “Axis.” Each word is accompanied by that scratching sensation. He’s writing, you realize, copying the names from his anatomy book. 

_Scapulae,_ written onto your back like feathers. The thoracic and lumbar spine, the sacrum and coccyx. Your face heats as he has to move the book in order to write the end of the word. 

He travels up to start again, to write over each rib and that makes you want to shout and wriggle; he pushes hard and then harder with the pen to take you beyond tickling and into pain. He writes across each ilium with a scrape and scratch that’ll leave long red welts, and moves the book so that he can dig into your gluteal muscles, then down through femur and tibia and fibula to the soles of your feet. 

But he is not unkind; you’re already fearfully anticipating the unbearable tickle but he merely presses a kiss to the sole of each foot before returning to the book and setting it aside. And one final word: the pen not pressing hard enough to write, merely sliding in between your folds so he can stroke it against the warm core of you. _“Mine,”_ he murmurs, his voice liquid and deep. 

“You’ve been such a wonderfully useful subject,” he says, now removing the ropes from your ankles, now guiding your knees under you to get your ass in the air. “I believe you are deserving of a reward.” His hands stroke along your ribs, surely smearing ink. They trail downward til he can hook his thumbs into you, til he can prise you open and see you wet with need, trying to clench around empty air. Trying to be filled. He sees, and his breath catches, an audible click that falls into still air like stones in a pond. 

And _oh,_ this is a reward. He doesn’t make you wait, not even long enough to remove his clothes; he merely opens his flies and climbs up onto the desk to kneel behind you. It’s indecent, it’s filthy, the way he brushes his knuckles over your ass as he moves to grip himself, the way he presses in with excruciating care. He’s thick and hot and insistent inside you, pressing inexorably forward until he’s seated to the root. 

There’s no way for you to get leverage; with your arms outstretched and bound, your face presses into the desk and slides forward with every thrust. And there is nowhere for you to go, nothing for you to do except be passive and accept everything he has to give. And _oh_ how he gives. He presses ink-stained fingers to your lips, pushing them inside to pet along your tongue. And when he’s satisfied with how they shine slickly with your spit, he brings them down to stroke at you, to circle and pet until you’re clamping down around him. 

It pulls him close to the edge but not yet over; he wrests himself back and breathes hard til he can force himself back under control, til he can wrap his hands steady over your iliac crest and perfect his angle. The roll of his hips has you racing toward the edge along with him; you’re gasping in time to his steady groans until he stills, his seed coating your walls as he fights to steady himself. And he reaches down again to pull you after him a second time, and as your world is disintegrating into shards of color you hear his voice. 

“And to think, we still have all your front to study.”


End file.
